


for thou art with me

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Series: yea, though I Walk [5]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Past Character Death, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rick looks back, it feels as though he's spent the last whole day underwater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for thou art with me

**Author's Note:**

> Tagfic for 3.05 "Say the Word" & 3.06 "Hounded"; rated for situational gore and psychological instability. Ficcing out some more of my feelings about the recent character arcs in anticipation of the new episodes.

When Rick looks back, clutching the little warm bundle of his daughter close in his arms, it feels as though he's spent the last whole day underwater. Everything between the moment Lori had smiled at him through the fences and when Maggie and Carl had walked back out of the prison without her was a rush of blood and adrenaline; and everything after.... 

His memories are all distorted, thrown out of perspective; faces swimming in and out of his vision, voices blurred like the adults in a Peanuts cartoon. He remembers pressure against his knees, grit and blood grinding into his jeans as he collapsed to the pavement in the yard. Carl's profile, frozen, looking away. Daryl-- he's pretty sure it was Daryl-- had tried to say something; he remembers a face floating in front of him, mouth moving senselessly. And the high, thin, gasping wail of the baby, vibrating in his ears like a physical ache.

And he remembers the _snap_ as his eyes lit on the axe a few yards in front of him, bringing every part of him to attention. The continuous chant of _no, no, dear God, no, it can't be true_ washed away by the sudden thunder of blood in his ears, the rush of _**I'll make** it not be true_ that had galvanized his limbs. As if, if he only killed all the walkers that had separated him from Lori, she'd step out of some dark corner and enfold him in her arms like none of it had ever happened.

The next while-- he has no idea how much time actually passed before he got to the boiler room; hours, definitely, but who knows how many-- was focused around that axe: around the heft in his hands, the strain in his muscles as he swung it in short, vicious arcs, the _thunk_ and jerk in his hands as he clove into a walker, the hungry moans of the next one approaching. The splash of thick, lukewarm liquid against his skin, and the cool, dank solidity of a wall against his shoulder when he stumbled.

Rick's memories weren't tracking very linearly during those hours, but he vaguely recalls a touch to his chest at one point, the sudden perception of _threat_ , and the bar of his arm pressing against a living throat. A faint, nauseated surge of recognition, as the second man to save his life after the world had ended froze, wide-eyed with fear of _him_. He remembers gathering himself just enough to thrust Glenn _away_ , back toward safety, then stumbling onward, still fixated on his goal.

And then-- the pool of blood. The knife; the bullet; the walker with its belly distended in a parody of Lori's. He's pretty sure he lost a lot of time, then.

He doesn't remember taking another full breath before that phone rang; just a heavy feeling in his chest, like all the air was being crushed out of him. He doesn't remember saying anything, either, though his throat had felt pretty raw when he'd picked up the receiver to answer.

If the hours in the dark of the prison had been like drowning, the sound of that first hallucinated voice had been like breaking the surface, like flicking the light switch back on in his mind. Motivation to get his ass up, wash off the blood, go find his son and make sure everyone else who'd survived the attack was still safe. A godsend, he'd thought, hanging on to the promise of a second call like a ray of hope.

Holding this precious life in his arms now, knowing his mind had been playing tricks on him-- as confusing and devastating as each voice had been, asking questions that gouged his heart, turning over the rocks he'd buried his guilt and grief under-- he wonders if it isn't still a promise, just not the one he'd wanted. A promise that no matter what happens, no matter how bleak things look, there's a part of him that never _will_ give up. Even if it means lying to _himself_ to get the job done.

It's... disturbing. He doesn't like not being able to trust his own mind. What if it happens again? What if they lose someone else-- if Carl, or, or the baby, god forbid but she's so little, there's so much they aren't equipped for-- and he loses control again? What if the next time someone follows him, he doesn't recognize them in time to stop?

That's a worry for later, though. For now-- he's still here. 

His family-- his friends, his children-- are still here. And the threat is _not_.

God have mercy on the next soul, living or otherwise, who presents a danger to them. Because after today's events, Rick is damned sure he won't.

\---


End file.
